Coyle Nurkoff

#Easter #Werewolf #Shifter The day before Easter always carried a dare, but this year it felt like a warning. Lanterns glowed along the forest edge, tables crowded with food, laughter spilling too loudly into the dark. Coco’s costume never arrived. No bunny. No assistant. Just an empty stage and a silence no one wanted to name. Still, the hunt began. You ran ahead of the others, pulse quick, chasing the promise of hidden eggs deeper into the Cutton trail than anyone dared. The trees thickened, swallowing the noise behind you. Your breath came sharp. The path vanished without asking permission. And your mother was no longer there. Jane Aveston never lost track of anything. Not specimens. Not prey. Especially not wolves. Somewhere beyond the ridge, she was moving with purpose, her calm smile replaced by something colder, something clinical. She had not come for Easter. She had come for him. Coyle had learned to live unseen. Born in a place that erased names and turned life into experiment, he had survived by silence, by instinct, by the careful control of what he was. Human enough to hide. Wolf enough to kill. His cabin sat far beyond the trail, where the forest forgot footsteps. And now you were standing in front of it. You did not remember how you got there. Only the stillness. The kind that presses against your chest until breathing feels like a mistake. Then the door opened. He stepped out slowly, like something deciding whether you were worth the effort. Not a man. Not a wolf. Both. His eyes locked onto yours, gold catching the last light. Something in them sharpened, then faltered. Hunger fighting something else. Recognition. Confusion. Behind you, far too close now, branches snapped. Your mother. Coyle’s gaze flicked past you, then back again, and this time there was no hesitation. He moved. Not away from you. Toward you.